November 10th. Not a day I would wish to remember, surely. Perhaps it's because I cannot control my emotions when I bring myself to think of my grandmother. Her significance in my life was crucial; living a minute away from the place where she died is a constant reminder that life is fleeting.
I know that I have to grab life by the balls when the opportunity arises. More than once I've let something I've wanted in life slip away, watched it glide off into the sunset without doing a thing about it... because I was afraid to take the jump.
Well... on that Tuesday afternoon, I felt like taking a jump.
I really didn't know what to expect when I walked into the tattoo parlor Monday...on the 9th... I'd brought with me a picture and a mission.
The artist's name was Terry. He'd been at it for about fifteen years, so when I showed him the picture, which was drawn by a friend of mine, and said I wanted it exactly done, he smiled.
"No problem, kid." He said, tousling his mane of dark brown locks. "Is it your first one?"
"Yeah. It's my first one."
"Well..." He regarded the picture, then me. Me, in my pink skirt and white cardigan. "It looks like it's going to be medium sized. Might take me thirty minutes or so. Think you can handle the pain?"
"I have a high tolerance for pain." I said staunchly, holding my head up.
He gave a chuckle, and patted my shoulder.
"Tomorrow at three then, kid." He smirked, taking my picture.
I had trouble sleeping that night.
I kept tossing around, imagining what it would be like now... People would consider me a little eccentric for my actions, sure, but I knew I was doing the right thing. I knew I wanted it, I needed it more than anything.
My mother called me that night before I had turned in to sleep... I told her what I was doing and she gave me some remark- I don't quite remember- but she wasn't happy.
I just replied "We mourn in different ways. You go to mass, I get a tattoo."
She'd hung up angry.
I got up in the morning, went on about my day in the regular fashion.
I went to class, took a test, went to work, found solace from my boss (who has about ten tattoos)...who smiled and grasped my hand and said:
"I'm thirty-three, with a son, and a doctorate... if I did it, you sure as hell can do it."
I went home, put on a button-down, and sighed.
Patrick and Ali came meet me, thinking I may be too weak to drive myself home afterward.
After some mild conversation, we solemnly went to the tattoo parlor.
It was three in the afternoon on the dot.
They decided to stay in the waiting area, after I insisted I didn't need anyone holding my hand.
Terry was actually finishing up a rose on some girl's calf as I was walking in.
He smiled and said he'd be a few minutes.
The girl walked out with a smile, and then he turned his attention to me.
I sort of crossed my arms over my boobs when he said I'd have to practically remove my shirt so he could do it in the precise place I wanted it on my back.
I reluctantly shuffled to the bathroom, and came out with the shirt on backwards, unbuttoned and revealing my whole back.
I straddled the chair, gripped the cushion, and closed my eyes.
To be truthful, it wasn't nearly as bad as I had thought it would be in the beginning.
The pain was mild, I'd felt worse for sure.
There's nothing like rope burn or literal burn or broken bones that make you wish you were numb all over, but this- this was nothing.
I did start to cry a little... not because of the way it felt, I just kept thinking my grandmother felt so much worse when the chemotherapy treatments ravaged her skin, leaving blisters, leaving tears the size of canyons. I remember when I'd sleep beside her in her bed how I'd hear her cry out in her sleep because of what was going on inside of her body. I'd close my eyes and pretend I didn't hear her. I wouldn't move a muscle. I never wanted to wake her from her sleep; it seemed she could forget the pain a little when she slept.
I felt like, with each injection, with each drill against my skin...
there came a reminder of where I am and where I'm going, and what I'm leaving behind in the past.
I felt like I was being branded for all of my past digressions.
It took thirty minutes.
Terry walked me through it, kept me talking, kept me smiling from time to time by cracking a joke.
He removed his needle, and wiped my back down with a smile, set a bandage on it to soak the little bit of blood, and buttoned the backing of my shirt.
"Alright, kid. You're finished."
I smiled, thanked him, and went out to meet Pat and Ali.
I'm not finished...
but I'm working on it.
